The no-holds-barred tale of a Chicago-based thirty-something living the so-called dream

Roommates and I are like Goldilocks and the Three Bears. It’s always either one extreme or the other, however some are just perfect. When it comes to roommates, I’ve experienced about everything there is to offer. Good roommates, bad roommates, and everything in between.

Growing up, I shared a room with my sister for over seven years – welcome to having a two-bedroom home with two children – until we finally put on an addition, so sharing a room was something I was somewhat experienced with already when I went away to college. My roommate freshman year and I couldn’t be more different, yet we got along great. A communications major at the time, I was the social butterfly. He, on the other hand, was an engineering major who wanted to design roller coasters. Super cool, but always studying. Perhaps I should have paid more attention to him, and I wouldn’t have nearly failed out my sophomore year. But that’s beside the point. We got along great, even though we never really hung out much outside of our dorm room…partially because we were both slightly obsessive compulsive when it came to keeping our room clean.

Fast forward to sophomore year. I moved into a three bedroom apartment with three of my friends from freshman year. Since I was staying in the city to work for the summer, I got to enjoy having the place to myself for the summer. Needless to say, when they moved in, I lasted all of about three months before I decided to head for the hills – well, downtown rather – and go back to living on my own.

So. Much. Easier.

Six months later, my friend who (we’ll call her “Lime” due to our mutual love of extra limes in our Bacardi Diets) moved in after breaking up with her boyfriend that she’d been practically living with. Keep in mind, I had an oversized studio at the time. A month later, I upgraded to a two-bedroom loft in the building.

Bad Idea.

Less than six months later, one disrespectful act had led to yet another. The last straw came when she rolled in from the bar with about 10 friends around 4:30am (mind you, the bars in Erie, PA close at 2am…) hammered out of their minds….after I’d asked earlier not to bring people back for afterhours since I had a final at 9am. Needless to say, when I came out of my room soon after, having been roused from a deep sleep by these drunken fools, and found one doing a line of coke off of my dining room table I was not a happy camper to say the least. The following afternoon, I proceeded to pack her stuff for her and left her a note that she needed to move out. Guess who I haven’t spoken to since. Whoops?

Soon after that, I started working for a new company answering phones for doctors’ offices after hours. It was far from glamorous, but I quickly hit it off with my supervisor. With both of us living in two-bedroom apartments by ourselves, we decided that we should do the unthinkable: move in together. Scandalous, right?

The following two years turned out to be two of the most fun years of my life. From adopting a dog together (as a thank you gift for doing all the invitations, place cards, and essentially being her Man of Honor in her bridal-party-lacking wedding) that now lives with her and her family in Atlanta, to discovering the wonders of Jen Lancaster (who we met at a book signing when I conveniently scheduled a work trip to coincide with her tour stop there), to playing “The Poke Game” (poking each other in the ass while racing up the stairs laughing like idiots) and jumping from her entertainment center to her bed with blankets tied around our necks pretending to be superheroes (keep in mind we’re both in our mid-20’s at this point), to being artistic and painting together…living with her was an absolute blast. Even when she yelled at me telling me to “Get over here and help me paint, you $*#&!@% coccoon!” when I was perfectly content wrapped in a blanket on the couch.

Part of the joy of living together stemmed from the fact that we lived in a three-story (if you count the finished basement that we would play Rock Band in until 3am) townhouse in a row of six that was connected to an Irish pub. The people-watching of the after-bar crowd was amazing. The arguments we witnessed as we spied from her bedroom window were priceless. Especially when we would blast porn from her laptop…in particular the “Japanese Screamer” – look it up. I dare you.

Needless to say, my “Roomdog” as she became known as, essentially ruined me for life because I’ll never have another roommate as amazing as her. I may as well be diagnosed with Ruined Expectations for Future Roommates Syndrome.

SIDE NOTE: I would like to take a moment to thank her for literally saving my life once. Being the extremely intelligent person that I am, I thought it was a great idea to open three drawers of my IKEA dresser at once while putting away clothes. I’m sure you can guess what happened next. It tipped over, pinning me underneath laughing like a banshee yelling for her to come rescue me and help clean up the dirt from the plant that landed upside down when it fell off the dresser.

With my Ruined Expectations for Future Roommates Syndrome in full bitch-mode, I moved in with my best friend at the time two years later in Lincoln. Let’s just say he brought a new meaning to psychopathic sociopath. Needless to say, we are no longer friends and don’t talk anymore. I’ll save the story of that trainwreck of a friendship gone wrong for another blog post. That’s how juicy it is.

So why the random post on roommates, you ask?

With Not-so-Carrie moving in this evening for who-knows-how-long, I feel it’s time to put previous roommate situations behind me. I know she will be a million times better than my Lincoln best-friend-turned-worst-nightmare of a roommate, but she probably won’t be able to hold a candle to my Roomdog as hard as she tries. Regardless, I couldn’t be more excited to have one of my best friends moving in and sharing a bed for the next few weeks. Bring on the boys, the adventures, and everything else associated with the two of us. Oh yeah, and the curled-up-in-bed-blogging-together-with-a-bottle-of-wine time. Cheers!

The modern misadventures of a twentysomething transplant from Nebraska, trying to navigate Chicago. Many gays love meddling with my life, for better and for worse. Fortunately, I'm a less horse-faced version of Carrie Bradshaw, that, unfortunately, never gets any action.